it be said that I prefer to sleep this precarious way in the will of God than to occupy the richest suite of rooms of the Waldorf-Astoria outside His will. In addition, there was the pleasant sur prise of awakening to behold the ex quisite morning star shining high above me in a soft turquoise sky—and won dering for a moment, “ Where am I?” Before I proceed with the account of this thrilling ride, a note to all prospec tive missionaries to Africa is in order! Don’t forget a steamer rug when you buy your outfit! It is invaluable. If you don’t actually use it on a boat, you will need it in the cold altitude as you fly the Atlantic. Again you may have to roll up in it along the side of an African 'path in the hotel-less hush. When you arrive at language school, it will be your first bedspread while you are waiting for your other earthly possessions to catch up with you. Yon can soften the hard board seats of a native lorry with it. You may want to use it as a table cloth on which to spread your first lunch on trek. Or it will serve nicely as a pillow when you drift slowly down the Congo or the Niger in a dug-out canoe. Thank God for sleep that “ knits up the raveled sleeve of care.” He had lit the sun again, so we did not need to be con cerned with lorry lights. We slept by the fifty-mile post out of Gombe and now had 127 miles to go before seeing Jos. The danger was still imminent, but somehow God gave a peace passing un derstanding. The remainder of the trip took ten hours, a good twelve miles an hour. There were dozens of stops—every five, seven, ten miles, repairs had to be made. There was trouble with the gas line, the carburetor, the tires, the bat tery; there was not sufficient oil, the engine was over-heated. Many times the immediate area around the parked truck was filled with our Moslem passengers who alighted to say their Mohammedan prayers. Turning their faces toward Mecca, they prostrated themselves upon the earth, touching their foreheads to the ground repeatedly. They were un ashamed and I could not but think of so-called Christians in the homeland afraid to ask a blessing at the table be fore meals! “ Allah, Allah, Allah, Allah!” We must have heard that Mohammedan word for God a hundred times that day. It was repeated in prayer; it was employed as an oath by angry Moslem lips. Often the oath and the petition came in the same breath. Every time we stopped for repairs, we were surrounded by curious onlookers who were quick to say “ Allah ya ba ku lafiya” (God give you health) and “ Ranki ya dade” (Long may you live). The latter greeting seemed to be a little too pertinent at the time! My black Christian house boy was riding in the rear with the Moslem pas sengers. Unknown to me at that time, these Moslems had told him that they were not afraid of being killed on this dangerous journey because we white missionaries were in the truck and there fore the Christian God would see that
we got safely to Jos. This was an amaz ing admission for them. So our Lord had to vindicate Himself. Had we not prayed the night before: “ O Lord, steering wheel or no steering wheel, it is all the same to Thee. Brakes or no brakes; nothing is impossible with Thee. If it is Thy will, take me safely home” ? At four o’clock in the afternoon we saw the answer to that prayer, as with out having suffered one injury, I en tered the door of my African home with its white-washed mud walls. As we neared Jos, we heard the news of a ter rible accident which had taken place the previous night. A car with two British soldiers and a nurse had crashed through the rails of a bridge and plunged thirty feet to the rocks below. The nurse, a girl of twenty-five, was killed. Soon after that, I went to stand a few minutes beside her grave. I felt I had to go. According to all the laws of human reasoning, I should have been buried there beside her. We had covered the same dangerous territory and our means of transportation was much worse than hers. Why was her life taken and mine spared? God must have some special work for me to do. So standing there I, without reservation, dedicated my life to Him anew—totally. Whiskey bottles found in the wreck age had explained the nurse’s fate. Iron ically enough, in the car was found a book entitled, “Heaven’s My Destiny.” Reader friend: What is the destiny of your immortal soul? On which road are you traveling? Who is at the steer ing wheel of your life? Jesus Christ, the holy Son of God, is the only Way to Heaven. I thank God that He is mine and I am His. He Had A Rendezvous w ith Death By Betty Bruechert C HRIST had a rendezvous with Death, Upon a hill of blood and shame, Although men found in Him no blame And He brought blessing everywhere. He had a rendezvous with Death; He had our load of sin to bear. I I E preached the Gospel to the poor, ■■And bade the sinner sin no more; He healed with every word and breath, He set sin's weary captives free. He had a rendezvous with Death, Upon a hill called Calvary, He could not bring us back to God Without the spear, the nails, the rod. F OR Him 'twere better far to stay In Heaven, by His Father's side; But then for us had been no way Of life beyond our final breath. Christ chose with Paradise to part, He had a rendezvous with Death. For sake of you and me He died. The love He had within His heart Kept Him to His pledged purpose true, He did not fail that rendezvous. T H E K I N G ' S B U S I N E S S
Miango lads (Nigeria) dressed for the rain dance. Their caps are merely a fancy hair-do. to rely upon Him alone—not upon the arm of flesh. I was reminded of what I had heard a few weeks before: “ The black man can take a vehicle long discarded by the white man and, with a little paper and string, tie the thing together and make it go again.” There may be some exag geration in this statement, but not much! So we were off again in this juggernaut of reckless speed. “Ya Allah, sai( ka taimaki bawanka. Ya Allah, Serikin duniya, ka ba mu lafiya!” (0 Allah, help your servant, 0 Allah, king of earth give us health) sang our gay young driver as we rolled along. But in the hearts of the missionaries was a different cry: “ Lord, if it can be for Thy glory, get us safely home.” Then the lights of the truck dimmed and died out and total darkness en veloped us in the bush. The driver was compelled to stop for the night. We felt that God had closed the door to heaven for a little while longer. Now we could relax; get a bit of refreshing sleep and be better prepared for what the morrow might bring. We had no camp cots, mosquito boots or net—nothing but a steamer rug to spread on the hard ground. I say “noth ing,” but there was the warm promise from the Psalms: “He shall cover thee with his feathers and under his wings shalt thou trust.” I laid me down and slept. Had He not promised, “He shall give his angels charge over thee, to keep thee in all thy ways” ? There was no point in both the Lord and us staying awake. Lions and hyenas might not be too far away and there were the ever present malarial mosquitoes and the un friendly scorpions, but again there was the promise “ Thou shalt not be afraid of the terror by night . . . nor for the pestilence that walketh in darkness.” David wrote: “ I will both lay me down in peace and sleep: for thou, Lord, only rrtakest me to dwell in safety.” And let Pagp Ten
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